


Somehow we'd end up in the same room

by yourbuttervoicedbeau (kiwiana)



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29238969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwiana/pseuds/yourbuttervoicedbeau
Summary: David Rose is his neighbour across the hall. Patrick only knows his name is David Rose because about six weeks ago, a package for him was delivered to Patrick’s by mistake; before that, Patrick had known nothing about the tall, dark-haired stranger who made his pulse race and his palms sweat every time they bumped into each other in the lobby. But ever since the Canada Post guy misread a 6 as a 5 and gave Patrick an excuse to walk across the hall and place a nondescript brown box into David’s hands, Patrick has had a name to go along with the face and body that he’s been forming elaborate fantasies about in his head.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 64
Kudos: 289





	Somehow we'd end up in the same room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maxbegone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxbegone/gifts).



> Happiest of happy birthdays to the dearest and most lovely maxbegone! I hope you have a day as wonderful as you are, my friend. 💜 
> 
> Title is from Katharine McPhee.

The frantic knocking on Patrick’s door makes him jump for two reasons. The first is that he just sank into his sofa cushions, beer in hand and ready to relax after a stressful day; the second and more important one is that… no one really visits him here. In the three months he’s lived in Schitt’s Creek he’s hardly gotten to know anyone, his daily commute to Elmdale not exactly leaving a lot of time for socialising. Sure, there’s delivery people occasionally, but usually much earlier in the day unless Patrick’s ordered dinner.

Patrick is halfway to the doorway to answer whoever it is when the knocking starts up again, and he yanks open the door with an annoyance that quickly dissipates when he sees who is standing on his doorstep. 

David Rose is his neighbour across the hall. Patrick only  _ knows _ his name is David Rose because about six weeks ago, a package for him was delivered to Patrick’s by mistake; before that, Patrick had known nothing about the tall, dark-haired stranger who made his pulse race and his palms sweat every time they bumped into each other in the lobby. But ever since the Canada Post guy misread a 6 as a 5 and gave Patrick an excuse to walk across the hall and place a nondescript brown box into David’s hands, Patrick has had a name to go along with the face and body that he’s been forming elaborate fantasies about in his head.

He’d almost asked David out then; the words had been on the tip of his tongue, a faux-casual  _ I’m new to the area, would you want to grab coffee sometime? _ But before he’d been able to spit them out David’s phone had started to ring, and he’d pulled it out with a genuine-looking grimace when he’d looked at the display.

“I have to— it’s my sister, sorry—” He’d looked genuinely remorseful, which had gone a long way to alleviating the swoop of disappointment in Patrick’s stomach. He’d stepped away with an awkward half-wave he’d regretted immediately, and tried not to think about how final the closing of David’s door had sounded echoing through the hallway. He’s seen David more than a few times since then, but one or both of them always seems to be too busy for anything more than a head nod of acknowledgement, and Patrick hasn’t been able to figure out how, or if it was even possible, to get the moment back.

But now David is standing on  _ his _ doorstep, looking frazzled and more than a little desperate.

“David, hey.” That’s good. That’s— casual. Patrick leans against the doorframe, trying desperately for nonchalant. “What’s up?”

“Can I borrow your shower?”

Patrick swallows, his mouth suddenly dry as he sends a silent apology into the universe for all the disparaging comments he’s ever made about the unrealistic setups of porn scenes. “My shower?” The words come out in an embarrassing croak as the mental images of David  _ in his shower _ flood his brain, the water flattening his hair, running down his clavicle— 

“I know, it’s super weird, sorry. It’s just— ugh, my shower is busted, and I have a date tonight, so.”

And if that isn’t an ice bucket of reality dumped over Patrick’s daydreaming, he doesn’t know what is. “You have a— um. Of course you do. I mean, um, of course you can. Sure.”

“Thanks.” Relief washes over David’s face, and it’s only when he steps forward that Patrick realises he has a bag in his hand; he must have been confident Patrick would say yes. “Can… I come in?”

Of course. Patrick is still blocking the doorway with his pathetic attempt at looking relaxed. Nervous, he reaches for a joke. “I mean, unless you’d like me to grab a hose?”

“Mmkay.” David looks like he doesn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed, but by the smile tugging at the corners of his lips, Patrick suspects the former must be winning out. He steps back, and David follows him into the apartment, his eyes scanning curiously along the bare walls before he turns to face Patrick. “Um, fair warning, I might be in there a while, so if you need anything in the bathroom you should… do that first. It takes a while to get all this looking acceptable.” He punctuates this statement with a kind of body roll that should be ridiculous and somehow winds up charming instead, and Patrick has to work hard to bite back a smile.

“Bathroom’s all yours, David. There’s clean towels in there, and you’re welcome to use my shampoo if you want.”

David looks horrified for a moment before he forces his face back to a neutral expression with what looks like difficulty. “Um, thank you, but I brought my own.”

Patrick shrugs, trying not to laugh. “Suit yourself.”

“Right.” David stares at him for a moment, and Patrick wonders if he’s going to say something, but in the end he just turns and walks towards the bathroom. “Well, thanks again for this.”

“You’re—”  _ welcome, _ he thinks, but the word is cut off by his own bathroom door slamming shut.

Patrick sighs, sits back down on the couch, and tries not to think about the fact that the object of his fantasies (and a not insignificant part of his gay awakening) is  _ naked, _ in his  _ apartment, _ less than three feet away.

* * *

It’s almost an hour before David emerges, and in that time, Patrick has finished his beer and opened a second out of sheer panic. He’s eternally grateful that he doesn’t have a mouthful when the bathroom door opens, sure he would have choked on it if he had. David is wearing skintight, artfully torn jeans and a leather jacket that looks like it cost more than Patrick’s car; his cheeks are still the tiniest bit pink from the shower, his hair is carefully styled, and he looks like… well. He looks like walking porn, is what he looks like. He looks like every one of Patrick’s fantasies come to life specifically to ensure he can’t get up off this couch without completely humiliating himself. It’s only when David clears his throat that Patrick realises to his horror that he’s been staring, and he drops his gaze back to his beer bottle as he tries desperately not to blush.

“Um.” David sounds uncharacteristically unsure, but Patrick can’t bring himself to look up, not after he’d been caught ogling a near-stranger like some sort of peeping Tom. “Thanks again for— for letting me barge in here, and probably using up all your hot water.”

“Enjoy your date, David.” He’s almost sure he manages to sound sincere, but he doesn’t look up until David’s gone.

* * *

After David leaves, Patrick does his best to distract himself from the anxious buzzing under his skin. He makes dinner, and scrubs the dishes clean with far more vigour than he normally would; he catches the last couple of innings of the Jays game while he scrolls aimlessly through Facebook. Anything to distract him from the thought of David on a date right now, laughing with someone across a booth at the café or… wherever else there is to go on dates around here — it’s not like Patrick’s dated anyone since he arrived to know where the local spots are. Or maybe, he thinks as the game finishes and he switches off the TV, seeing as it’s been a few hours, maybe David has gone back to his date’s house… or they’re at his apartment, a mirror image of Patrick’s own— 

He needs to  _ stop. _ David isn’t  _ his; _ they barely know each other, really. Patrick has no claim over him whatsoever. He should go to bed, stop obsessing.

_ Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock. _

Patrick glances down at his phone with a frown, noting the time, before walking cautiously over to the door. He pulls it open to reveal David, wringing his hands with anxiety written all over his features, and the déjà vu of doing the exact same thing just a few hours ago is enough to render Patrick temporarily speechless.

“Sorry, I know it’s late.”

“How’d your date go?” As soon as Patrick asks the question, he immediately regrets it. But when David’s nose wrinkles, he decides maybe he’d like to hear the answer after all. 

“Ugh, she didn’t stop talking about herself the  _ whole _ night. She didn’t seem to want to, like, get to know me, which I kind of thought was the entire point of dating, so.” David looks at him for a long moment, biting his lip, but making no move to either come inside or explain why he’s knocked on Patrick’s door well after 10pm.

“David, what—”

“I’m sorry.” David blurts the words out, his shoulders tense. “I shouldn’t have bothered you again, I’m sorry. Enjoy your night, Patrick.” He turns to leave, and Patrick takes half a step forward before he even realises he’s doing it.

“Wait.”

David turns back, and the flicker of something like hope in his eyes is enough to make Patrick take another step forward. “I’m sorry your date didn’t go well, David.”

David just looks at him, uncomfortably and unsettlingly direct. “Are you?”

Patrick meets his gaze without flinching. “Not really, no.”

In a flash, David has closed the gap between them, pressing Patrick backwards until his spine is pressed up against the doorframe and David’s hand is on his jaw.

As first kisses go, it’s relatively chaste, but the way Patrick’s body reacts is anything but. He groans into David’s mouth, his hands finding their way into the tight white shirt underneath the leather jacket and clinging to it, pulling him closer as David traces the seam of Patrick’s lips with his tongue. He lets his mouth fall open with a sigh, lets David taste him, take him, consume him. 

By the time they pull apart Patrick is panting heavily, and David’s cheeks are flushed. They just look at each other for a long moment before David opens his mouth, but falters before he can say anything. 

Patrick jumps in to fill the silence. “Can I take you to dinner?”

David blinks. “Um, it’s Schitt’s Creek. Everything’s closed.”

“I meant tomorrow, David.” 

“Oh.” For some reason David blushes even harder at this, looking quietly pleased. “Um, okay.”

“Okay.” He summons all his willpower to step back out of David’s grasp, missing the warmth of his hands immediately but knowing he needs a minute to… recalibrate. “Shall we say eight o’clock?” When David nods, he adds: “And I already have your address, so.”

David shakes his head with a soft chuckle. “Go inside before I change my mind.” His grin is wide and sparkling, clearly teasing, and Patrick just laughs as he fumbles behind him for the door handle. 

“Good night, David.”

David’s smile softens into something much more gentle, something that makes Patrick’s stomach flip. “Good night, Patrick.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Come and find me on [Tumblr](http://yourbuttervoicedbeau.tumblr.com/).


End file.
